


The Sex Janitor

by LizzyLovegood



Series: Home for Christmas [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Humor, New Year's Resolutions, Possessive Behavior, Reunions, Romance, dominant doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 08:17:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3242720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzyLovegood/pseuds/LizzyLovegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been three weeks in the parallel universe and Rose is still making her goodbyes while the Doctor grows more insecure by the second. If the only solution is to let him take her on the bathroom sink, wet skirt sticking to her thighs, then Rose would do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sex Janitor

**Author's Note:**

> For those who requested it, this is a kinda-sorta sequel to Home for Christmas. Big thank-yous to everyone who asked for one and got me off of Tumblr to go write it!
> 
> For those who didn't request it and/or detest Christmas fluff, this story can also be enjoyed on its' own.
> 
> This was inspired by a photo I found online that implored people to “NOT lick the bathroom walls” which, like most things in life, reminded me of Doctor/Rose.
> 
> Due warning, this is my first attempt at smut and I apologize if it is terribly cringe-worthy.

Rose didn’t think she’d fully realized how much Pete’s World had become her home until she went to clean out her closet. Full to bursting with T-shirts and trousers, skirts and blouses, with several rows of shoes lined up along the floor like sentries, it reminded her of the wardrobe room on the TARDIS, not only in sheer volume but in history.

Here was her favorite sweatshirt, glitter still embedded in the thick material from her and Jenny’s enthusiastic experiments in bedazzling. Folded neatly over its’ hanger was the slate-gray pencil skirt, worn for the first and last time on her first day at Torchwood; Jackie had insisted on taking a picture and, like a petulant teenager Rose had made a face and flipped the bird at the camera. Over there was the candy-striper outfit from the first time she had gone undercover, a day where _everyone lived_ and she‘d decided that maybe Torchwood wasn’t so bad after all.

More than _not so bad_ , it was brilliant. She had more than a life in this world, she had a home. It wasn’t just her mum waiting at home for a visit now: there was her dad and Tony and Mickey, too. Who would babysit Jenny or come to Tony’s football games? Who would take Rose’s spot in Trivia Night and get Jake to buy a drink for the handsome bloke at the bar? This world would run on with or without Rose Tyler and it would have to be without because here she was, baggy blue sweater and too-large black trousers in hand, getting ready to leave it for the same man who had abandoned her in it.

It took Rose a second to recognize the strangled sob as her own, a second in which she felt the Doctor’s arms wrap firmly around her. She imagined he had been in the next room; he had hardly let her out of his sight for five minutes the past week, as if she’d disappear into another parallel universe if he took too long in the loo.

“I’m assuming these aren’t happy tears?” Turning her unresisting body to face him, the Doctor took in her stinging eyes and warm cheeks, her mouth scrunched up against further sounds. He ran the pad of his thumb tenderly across her cheeks.

It was a fair question. The days since the Doctor’s fortuitous accident had been an emotional rollercoaster for them both. When they weren’t making up for lost time in kisses and caresses and lots of naked snuggling, the Doctor and Rose were attending yet another family function, unwrapping gifts - despite his last-minute arrival, there were still a few gadgets under the tree for the Doctor to dissect - and stuffing themselves full of Christmas cookies and, once they were too bloated to argue, doing their best to fend off the barrage of questions from Pete and Mickey and Jackie. Rose had already had several shouting matches over the stability of the walls between universes, the Doctor’s true motives, and the unknown date of their impending - at least according to her mother - nuptials, nearly as many as she’d had with the Doctor since his return.

Rose shook her head _no_.

“Want to tell me?” He leaned further forward to nuzzle her cheek, one hand stroking through her hair, long fingers scratching gently at her scalp.

It was a question not a demand and Rose was grateful for this. While his need to document every second of Rose’s time without him bordered on obsession, he had told Rose very little about the time he had spent without a hand to hold. Or, at least, without her hand to hold. Warranted or not, the little she had heard about Donna ( _I crashed her wedding - another Christmas invasion believe it or not_ ) and Martha ( _we met Shakespeare, she likes Harry Potter too, Rose_ ) made her nervous and it had caused several rows between them. He could hardly blame her, she’d reminded him heatedly just the other day, for having one snog with Ben when he might have been _dancing_ his way across time and space.

To which the Doctor had replied that he would never endanger their relationship in such a way - because even if her human, sex-crazed brain only classified carnal acts as being _in a relationship_ he had loved her since _run_ (something which Rose would have considered romantic if she wasn’t so angry) - and considered their separation little more than a vow of celibacy. The judgment in his eyes had been too much and, after calling him several choice words, Rose had fled. He had found her in her old bedroom on the TARDIS a half-hour later, curling up behind her and murmuring apologies and _it was just a genetic transfer_ s, pressing frantic kisses to her skin that Rose greedily returned.

But right now there were no frantic kisses, no hasty tearing of clothing. Right now, the Doctor did nothing, simply sat there with Rose in his arms. When Rose peered up at him, she could see the set of his jaw, clenched against further interrogation. More than anything, this was what compelled her into an admittance.

“I miss home,” she said, swallowing thickly.

“Ah.” The Doctor was silent for a second before clarifying, “Here home?”

“Yeah.” Feeling absurdly traitorous, Rose burrowed her face into his shirt, buttons digging into her cheek. “I miss it and we haven’t even left yet.”

“Ah.”

“Sorry.” Rose felt the tears start afresh and she clenched her eyes tight-shut, stiffening in the Doctor’s hold. His arms tightened around her, so hard it almost hurt, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“It’s a perfectly normal reaction, Rose. You’ve built a life here. This isn’t like last time, I don’t expect you to just go swanning off with me first chance you get.”

These were all things she’d discussed with and/or shouted at him over the past week and it was an odd feeling to hear them parroted back at her.

“We can stay as long as you need to.” He tipped her head up to kiss her damp lips, framing her face with his hands when she went to shake her head. “No, none of that. I know what it’s like to have your family ripped away from you. I would never do that to you, Rose.”

“No, I know.” Rose wiped her nose with the Doctor’s sleeve, leaving a trail of snot behind. “But domestics aren’t really your thing. And we’ve had more than enough lately with Christmas and Tony’s birthday and tonight’s New Year’s Eve so there’s gonna be loads of posh people here again and they’re prob’ly all gonna offer bids on the TARDIS and Mum’s gonna expect you to wear a tux. . . .”

“Well, new year, new start and all that, right?” The Doctor nuzzled his nose into her hair, pressed a kiss to her temple. “Tell you what, I’ll make that my New Year’s Resolution: more domestics.”

Despite herself, Rose felt a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I thought it was to learn Reindeer.”

The Doctor sniffed. “Who says a bloke can’t have two resolutions? Besides, Rose Tyler,” his voice grew husky and he bore her down to lie back against the pile of laundry, pressing his weight atop hers a moment later, “you make me want to break the rules.”

Curling her fingers through his lapels, Rose dragged him down for a kiss, trailing her lips along his jawline and down his neck to nip at his pulsepoint. She bit back a smirk when he whimpered, hips bucking against hers.

“In that case,” she suggested, once he was sufficiently dazed, “how’s about we go grab some of that whipping cream from the pantry?”

“For the Christmas pudding?” The Doctor blinked up at her, looking nonplussed. “Rose, your mother would kill us. Besides, what could we possibly do with . . . _oh_. Oh, Rose Tyler, that is deliciously naughty. Ooh, I just used the word _naughty_ with a sexual connotation. Never done that before. Not sure if I fancy it.” His mouth twisted in thought before adding, with a delighted waggle of the eyebrows, “But it’s quite domestic this, isn’t it? Deliciously, naughtily domestic?”

“Very,” Rose assured him.

The Doctor beamed. “Brilliant.”

**...**

That had been two weeks ago.

Rose flipped through the stack of CV’s on her desk - mostly bare now, save for a few pens and paperclips - tapping a pen cap against the dark wood and doing her best to ignore the Time Lord tattooing his own impatient staccato two feet to her right.

Rose knew she shouldn’t be surprised. Despite his assertions to the contrary, the Doctor’s mannerisms were eerily similar to that of a human male. Craig had been wandering the office since nine, telling all who would listen to that he had a doctor’s appointment and wouldn’t be able to make it to the gym after work and how disappointed he was. Kevin, while less loquacious, had already snuck out for a cigarette break today. Soon, no one would bother to make excuses, would go back to their large orders of chips and smoking half-a-pack a day or, in Rose’s case, to world-dominating despots and alien invasions. Still, she couldn’t help but feel slightly hurt.

“So, who’s coming in for the interview today?” he asked for the third time in the last ten minutes.

“Monica Borden,” Rose reminded him, also for the third time.

“Right. Right. That sounds like a good name, doesn’t it? Monica? That was the name of one of your friends in primary school, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Rose raised her eyebrows, slightly surprised. The Doctor had something of an encyclopaedic memory but, if her own memory served, this was something she’d mentioned not long after they’d first met. “Yeah, it was.”

“Wonder if it’s the same one. Well, not the _same_ one, obviously, but the parallel-world version.”

“Maybe.” Rose doodled several stars next to Monica’s list of references, pressing the pen so hard on the last that it tore through the paper.

“You know, I think you should just go ahead and hire her,” said the Doctor. “For old time’s sake. I mean, look at her resume, she looks perfectly qualified.”

“We won’t know that till we interview her, Doctor,” said Rose. She brought the pen cap to her mouth, chewing at it idly; the Doctor was allowed his bad habits, why shouldn’t she indulge a few of her own. “People can fudge these type of things. That’s what the last bloke did.”

“So what?” The Doctor shrugged. “Sometimes you just have to throw someone into the deep end, let them sink or swim.”

“I think HR might have a few things to say about that,” said Rose dryly.

“It’s true! Take you, for example. You didn’t have a scrap of alien knowledge when we first met. . . .”

“Oh, thanks very much.”

“. . . but you adapted right quick, didn’t you? Saved my life the second time we met and you’ve been doing it ever since. I miss that.” The hand that had been drumming the desk came to rest on her thigh, skating one long finger back-and-forth over the run in her stocking. He had expressed his liking of her business-wear several times over the holidays - had even gone so far as to nip out to the shops, returning with a new skirt and blouse, both in TARDIS-blue - and Rose, doing her best to make this short stint of domesticity more enjoyable, had eagerly obliged. Many a coworker had turned a blind eye to the locked copy room at mid-morning break, as well as the muffled sounds that issued from it.

But today she plucked his fingers off her thigh, one by one, leaned away from his touch, feeling unnecessarily cruel but reveling in it all the same. He’d promised her domestics, damn it, and it had barely been two weeks. They’d stayed in the vortex for longer than this before, only popping down to Earth for a trip to the chippy or some Ben & Jerry’s before heading back to their movie marathon or pool party or cuddle-a-thon.

“I’m just saying, experience isn’t the only thing that matters,” the Doctor argued, voice rising slightly in frustration at his interrupted seduction. Across the hall, Sharon looked up from her Macbook, glaring daggers at them till the Doctor shot her a disarming grin, wiggling his fingers flirtatiously in her direction. Rose turned away, narrowing her eyes at the files in front of her; she could feel his eyes, filled with that defiant _look-what-I-just-did_ look, boring into the side of her head.

“Look, why don’t you go explore or something?” Rose suggested through gritted teeth. “Ben’s down on the next level, he can give you a tour.”

There it was: the magic word. _Ben_. Rose hid her smirk at the Doctor’s scornful snort.

“I can certainly find my way around this place without _Ben’s_ help.”

“Well, if you’re just gonna sit here and whine.”

“I am _not_ \- all I’m _doing_ is . . .” the Doctor took a deep breath, nostrils flaring, before lowering his voice to a more logical, reasonable tone that absolutely dripped with condescension. “Rose, be realistic.”

“Be _realistic_ ,” Rose hissed back. “The thousand-year-old alien is telling me to be _realistic_.”

The Doctor rubbed at his temples. “You’ve interviewed eight people already, Rose. You’re wasting your time and talent on this. If you don’t want to leave yet, I understand, but there’s no need to make up excuses.”

“I am not _making_. . . .”

Rose felt the tips of her ears warm, a combination of humiliation and anger flooding her senses. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sharon look up from her desk again and she grasped the Doctor by the arm, dragging him away before he could so much as twitch his pinky in her direction. She wasn’t having this conversation here, where every nosy bint in the office could listen in. Striding down the hall, she made a hard right into the first door the saw, the men’s lavatory, glaring fiercely at Jerry, who nearly choked on his bite of pilfered doughnut and was quick to scramble out of their way with a few hastily muttered apologies.

Rose planted herself in front of the door the second it swung shut behind him, impeding the Doctor’s escape route.

“I am _not_ making excuses,” Rose repeated. She managed the whole sentence this time, but hated the way her voice shook when she said it.

“Rose. . . .”

“No.”

Hot tears stung the backs of her eyes and she blinked them angrily away. Tears would only make him pity her, make him think that she was that same stray he had picked up four years before, so sick-and-tired of her _beans-on-toast_ life that she was incapable of making any other choice than that which the mysterious man in his magical blue box offered her. She wasn’t that little girl anymore.

“This is important what I do here, Doctor, alright?”

“I know that.”

“Sure doesn’t seem like it. You’ve done nothing but complain since I started back here.” It was a gross exaggeration and Rose was well-aware of this. He’d fetched her tea from down the street - and had gone back for more when they hadn’t added enough cream - and had saved her from a few unpleasant water-cooler conversations with a well-placed sticky note or an impressive-sounding mutter of _James McCrimmon on Line 1_. Nor was she going to complain about the _While You Were Out_ memos with reminders like _John Smith requests meeting in third-floor broom closet_ or _kitchen is out of whipping cream_ that almost made the two-hour staff meetings worth it.

The Doctor crossed his arms across his chest, cocking one skeptical eyebrow. “I have been perfectly supportive of you through this whole thing, Rose, and you know it. And I’m sorry but when you have the ninth person in for an interview only to refuse to hire them for some ridiculous reason . . . well, it gets a bit frustrating.”

Rose bit down on the inside of her cheek, dug her nails into the heels of her hands. “It’s a dangerous job, Doctor. I’m not just going to hire the first person who walks through the door.”

“I know you’re not.”

“And who’s to say we won’t hire this Monica person, huh? She seems perfectly competent.”

The Doctor’s jaw tensed and Rose watched his mouth twist before he offered a slightly strained smile. “You’re right. Who’s to say you won’t? And after that we’ll just take off, shall we? After you’ve said proper goodbyes to your family, of course.”

“You said we could stay as long as I wanted.”

“I did,” said the Doctor. “That’s why I’m asking. Say you do hire this woman, would you be comfortable leaving Miss Monica Borden to fend for herself, to immediately take on your myriad responsibilities, with or without your father’s help?”

Almost against her will, Rose found herself reaching to her right ear, running a finger along the gold hoop that dangled from it, giving the Doctor the only answer he needed.

“What should it matter to you?” she challenged. “You said we could stay as long as I needed.” Even to her own ears, she sounded like a broken record.

“I know I did,” repeated the Doctor, patient as ever. “All I’m wondering is how much longer that’s going to take, how much longer you’re going to _need_ , Rose, before you’re ready.”

“And it’s such torture being here with me, is it?” Rose retorted. Again, she blinked away tears.

“I didn’t say that.” The Doctor’s voice softened as he spotted her shining eyes and he reached for Rose but she shook her head and backed away from him.

“Tired of the domestic life already, are you? Just want to hop aboard the TARDIS and go on saving planets and pretend this - this whole _thing,”_ she gestured vaguely between them, “never happened.”

Gaze fixed on a urinal cake, Rose only heard the Doctor’s sharp intake of breath, an emotional blow that his respiratory bypass was no good against.

“I regret many things in my life, Rose Tyler,” he said seriously in a voice that was ever-so-slightly damp, “but _we_ are not one of them.” When she only nodded, the Doctor sighed and crossed the few steps between them. He didn’t touch her but she could feel the hurt in his eyes, burning a hole in her temple. “I don’t want you to ever think that, not even for a second.”

Hesitantly, Rose allowed herself to meet his eyes again and he smiled at her in encouragement tilting his head forward to brush his lips gently against her own. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, as if she was the one who needed to be protected and coddled and reassured that _yes, of_ course _he loved her and how could she ever think otherwise_ even when he refused to believe the same.

Rose was tired of gentle.

Breaking the languid kiss for only a second, Rose smirked at his comical pout as she took hold of his tie, dragging him with her till she felt cold porcelain press against her thighs.

“Rose, are you. . . .” She silenced him with another kiss, wrapping one leg around his slim hips while she guided his hands to her own hips, urging him to lift her up onto the row of sinks.

“Don’t be,” she said.

“What?”

“Don’t be sorry. I know you don’t regret this. Shagging is just about the only domestic thing you’re interested in, isn’t it?”

“Rose.” Looking contrite, the Doctor reached up to stroke her cheek. “Rose, you know that’s not. . . .”

“Don’t bother denying it.” Rose released him nipping, slightly harder than normal, at his lower lip as she went. “‘S not like I can blame you. It’s the only thing that keeps us randy humans going either. And I haven’t had _nearly_ enough of it these past few years.” She paused, running a tongue along suddenly-dry lips as she awaited the Doctor’s reaction.

She wasn’t disappointed.

“Nearly?” he echoed, eyes darkening. His right hand moved from her buttock to her thigh, moving up underneath the tight blue skirt.

“Nearly,” Rose confirmed. She pressed her heels lightly into his bum, drawing him closer, closer to where she needed him. It wasn’t the most mature way of dealing with things, but Rose wasn’t feeling too mature at the moment. She wanted the Doctor angry and she wanted it now.

“Which implies more than none.”

Rose shrugged, a gesture that belied her sultry smile. “That’s up for you to decide.”

“And suppose I decide that you and Ben did more than you told me?” the Doctor growled. “Suppose I decide that I want you to be all mine? What then, Rose Tyler?”

It was said with all the assurance of a man well-used to tearing women’s clothes off in broom closets and copy rooms - the man that the Doctor had evolved into the past fortnight - but Rose heard the underlying hesitance in his tone, fearful that she would break under the weight of the Oncoming Storm. She had seen him on the barest shadow of it a few times, when he had to watch a world destroy itself, its’ only offense being a fixed point in time or, these past few days, when she brought up Reinette or he brought up Ben - each name a catalyst meant to goad the other.

In the end, one of them would always storm off but, once the dust settled, it was always he who found her first, filled with remorse and trembling as he murmured I’m sorry over and over into her hair leaving Rose with little more to do than remind him of her promise of forever. It was the best she could do, even if it only briefly dispelled the worry in his eyes, his own cracks growing steadily deeper, inching toward his two hearts. It would break them both if she didn’t stop it.

If the only solution was to let the Doctor take her on the bathroom sink, wet skirt sticking to her thighs, then Rose would do it. She wasn’t afraid.

“Suppose you’ll have to show me.”

Rose’s shrug turned into a shudder as the Doctor’s hand moved higher still. He made an appreciative sound low in his throat and hooked one finger into the top of her stockings, tugging them down to mid-calf.

Her eyes darted to the Doctor’s too-tight trousers and she reached for his fly only to have her wrist grasped tightly in his own, pressed to the counter next to her. There were a few crumbs left over from Jerry’s doughnut and a laugh burbled up from her throat only to have the Doctor’s left hand clamp over her mouth.

“No noise,” he hushed, dragging her knickers down with his free hand. They were a purple and lacy, more decorative than anything, and he examined them for a second before stuffing them into an inside pocket of his suit. He licked his fingers free of her wetness before undoing his own fly.

“No noise,” he repeated, positioning himself, “or I’ll stop. Are we clear?”

Rose nodded.

“I just want you to think.” He thrust into her with a low groan and swallowed Rose’s almost-moan with his mouth. Her fingers scrabbled against the damp countertop till the Doctor guided them to tangle in his hair; had she been permitted, Rose would have sighed in relief.

“Think how your other lovers made you feel and how _I_  make you feel,” he continued in a growl. “How I’m the only one who can make you feel like this. Make you come undone like this.” He pulled out all the way, rubbing against her clitoris, before thrusting back in with enough force to have Rose clutching his shoulders, jerking up into him with a muffled curse that the Doctor chose to ignore.

She didn’t think he could have stopped if he’d wanted to.

“You are _mine_ , Rose Tyler,” he said, strokes growing steadily harder, “and I want you to say it. Say it for me, Rose. Say that you’re mine.”

“Yours, Doctor.” It was the only clear thought in Rose’s mind, the pesky details and multisyllabic sentences lost in a sweat-sheened haze of promises where she was _his always, his no matter what, his, his, **his**_. . . .

“Forever.” They said it together, tipping over the edge in tandem and all Rose was aware of was the Doctor, clawing her thigh and pressing a bruising kiss to her breastbone, sheathed in her and surrounding her so completely that nothing else registered for several long seconds that could have lasted lifetimes.

“Rose,” called Mickey, “you in there?”

Rose squeaked in surprise and she heard Mickey chuckle in a mixture of exasperation and indulgence. She wondered how many bathrooms and broom closets he’d checked already. Hopping to the ground on shaky legs, she stumbled over her bunched-up stockings and would have fallen to the tile if the Doctor hadn’t caught her.

“Careful,” he teased, _tsk_ -ing into the shell of her ear.

“Pete wants you in his office in five minutes,” said Mickey. “Monica Borden’s here for the interview and he says he’s got a good feeling about her. He wants all the heads of department there.”

“Yeah, alright.” Reluctantly, Rose divested herself from the Doctor’s hold. “Tell ‘im I’ll be there in two.”

“That’s three minutes,” murmured the Doctor. “Do you have any idea what I could do to you in three minutes, Rose?”

It was said too low for anyone to overhear but it was impossible to mistake the amusement in Mickey’s voice for anything but. “Just be there in five minutes, alright? And clean up. We’ve been getting complaints from Janitorial.”

“Yes, sir, Mister Mickey,” the Doctor called back when Rose, busy pondering the fact that she could have a completely rational conversation with her ex-boyfriend mere seconds after reaching orgasm, didn’t answer. Taking note of her pinkening cheeks, he waggled his eyebrows and leaned down to run his tongue along the crook of her elbow. Surprised, Rose jerked back.

“What are you doing?”

“Cleaning up,” he said, as if it should be obvious. “Time Lord saliva has amazing antibacterial properties. Like hand sanitizer, but completely self-generated.”

“So what you’re saying is we should bottle your spit,” Rose retorted. Steady on her feet again, she flashed him a tongue-touched grin as he sank to his knees before her.

“Not at all.” The Doctor grimaced. “My spit, Rose Tyler, is a valuable commodity, not to be given away lightly. Can you imagine the whole world getting to experience _this_ every day?” Watching her hungrily from under hooded eyes, ran his tongue up the inside of her bare thigh, brushing the hem of her skirt with his nose. “Complete chaos.”

“Mmm.” Rose hummed in agreement. Her right hand fisted in the Doctor’s hair and she pouted as he lifted himself to his feet again, hands encircling her waist to place himself nearer to the row of sinks.

“Go on.” He waved a hand. “Don’t want to make you late for your meeting.” Slowly and methodically, he began to brush his tongue along the porcelain. “I’m fine here.”

“Er . . . alright.”

“I’m cleaning up, Rose,” he explained, breaking off his tongue-swirling to peer at her over one shoulder. “Promised Mickey, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I think he meant, like, Clorox or something.”

Even turned away from her, she could see the Doctor’s nose wrinkle up. “Clorox? So it can wipe any taste of you out of existence? No, ta. I’d prefer to clean that up myself. Fax machine on the fourth floor’s next.” He grinned so wickedly that Rose had to remind herself not to be jealous of an inanimate object.

“So I’ll just . . . leave you to it then, shall I?”

“Sounds good.” He stuck his tongue against the faucet of the rightmost sink that Rose couldn’t even remember touching.

“To go around and lick everywhere we’ve had sex.”

“Yep.” He smacked his lips together pensively, like a wine connoisseur after taking their first sip, before diving in again.

“Rose Tyler, Defender of the Earth and the Doctor, the Sex Janitor?”

The Doctor’s tongue darted to the soap dispenser, brow furrowing as, Rose imagined, her taste mixed with that of Dawn.

“Forever,” he promised.

 


End file.
